Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda's Got a New Pair of Shoes"

     Miss Linda was feeling much better since she immersed herself in DIRT (Dramatic Intense Relief Today, hashtag: Soil Yourself), but was honestly finding the hard physical labor aspect of the business exhausting. It might have been easier to dig up her hillside if she wasn’t still a doll (she was), but she didn’t think so.

     It wasn’t so bad at first…her mind wandered, and she got lost in meditation as she shoveled spoonful after spoonful of dirt into a small bucket she could reasonably lug up the hill, but it took several trips up that hill to fill even one cardboard box of dirt, and after a few months of that the novelty of it had most certainly worn off. Plus, she’d been doing this barefoot during the Spring and Summer months, but it was October now and she needed some actual shoes.

     She discovered that trying to find the right doll shoe was nearly impossible, especially since she had turned into a doll from the 1960s for some reason (this was just a guess…she’d never seen a doll like herself before). She had a medium arch for moderate heels, but she was much larger than a Barbie doll, and did not have flat feet like these “American Dolls” (whatever they were). She finally found a three-pair package of small Ugg boots at Amazon, and snapped them up not only for their obvious practicality, but because they were literally the only shoes/boots that might remotely fit her. They would have to do.

     Obviously, she would much prefer Mary-Janes, but that seemed like too much to ask without quite a bit of prolonged research, so she settled on the Uggs and called it a day.

     Originally she was thinking of hill-climbing when she made the purchase, but Madame Stratus had unexpectedly left town, reuniting with an old college “friend” reincarnated into a romantic partner in Colorado, so Miss Linda was left shoveling (spooning) dirt by herself, while Madame Stratus was still collecting half the profits since it was her idea in the first place. Miss Linda was starting to feel like she got the rough end of the spoon. Additionally, the New-Age Hipsters who had been the most ardent consumers of DIRT had started to question the origins of it, and when Miss Linda tried to explain that it was coming from a hillside emanating a magical Vortex, of course they wanted proof of this.

     If she had been able to provide proof of the Vortex she would, but she’d been trying to find the entrance to it for years now, to no avail…all she had was her word, which was growing less and less acceptable to the New-Age Hipsters, which she found ironic, since they literally believed the Earth was flat, the moon-landing was a fake, and that Overlord L’Orange’s election was stolen out from underneath him by a Deep-State Pedophilic Cabal. They believed all that crap, but were skeptical about a magical Vortex on her hillside? They confounded her.

     Anyway, sales had been slowing down, and with the colder (for Los Angeles) months approaching, she thought she might just coast for a little while on her disability money and utilize the modest profits of DIRT until they ran out. She was also down one renter now, as Madame Stratus was posting romantic photos with her new lover on Facebook and Instagram, and it appeared as though she was there to stay.

     She decided to focus her energy on her two online Witch programs, and on healing her Chakras through a series of meditations that required a daily practice of a three-week commitment, removing any blockages she stumbled across. Miss Linda was as skeptical about Chakra Balancing as those New-Age Hipsters were about her DIRT origins, but she figured, what the Hell? Might as well give it a try…what could un-blocking herself hurt in the grand scheme of things?

     Miss Linda timed her morning marijuana edible to sync perfectly with a late-afternoon meditation session, and got a new notebook for the purpose of recording her results.

     As she dove into her meditations, she realized almost immediately that DIRT was composed of very first-Chakra stuff, and deciding to leave it in the dust almost instantly raised her vibrational level.

     The day she realized this, her Ugg boots arrived by carrier.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "DIRT"

     Miss Linda lost one of her long-time cat familiars, Tigre, to cancer, and was attempting to snap out of her bleak mood. She would prefer to wear black berets, turtlenecks, and enormous black sunglasses indefinitely, but also realized this was not the best plan for long-term health or peace of mind.

     She begrudgingly researched local Meet-up groups to widen her social circle, but could not find any of the following: Magicians and Magicians’ Assistants Mixers, Puppetry for Adults (non-pornographic), Witches High Tea (literal and figurative), Magical Realism Book Club (co-ed), Roller-Skating for Adults (non-pornographic), Existential Philosophy Wine-and-Cheese gatherings or Intermediate Levitation groups. Starting her own Meet-Up group sounded exhausting (not to mention the start-up fee), so she decided to remain in black mourning attire for a while longer, languishing on her balcony at night while smoking the occasional cigarette.

     Everything at Rancho Tarzanadu decided to break down at the same time she lost her beloved Tigre (during the first two weeks of January amidst a Mercury retrograde): the refrigerator, the house thermostat, the pool pump, the oven…all amidst a strange and intense Los Angeles monsoon, which climate experts predicted would only intensify over time; hence the need for black attire, the occasional cigarette, and Leonard Cohen records set to repeat on Spotify.

     Miss Linda wandered aimlessly around the house, taking notes on what needed fixing next; there were rumors of tree-rat invasion (again!) from the film editor, who heard scratching inside the walls…Miss Linda sighed loudly, and jotted it down. The Mime mimed that the cos-playing Klingon neighbors’ palm trees were scraping the roof at night in the agitated winds, causing him to lose sleep, and possibly damaging the roof tiles…Miss Linda rolled her eyes and wrote it down. The German Dog Trainer complained that the drains weren’t draining properly in the backyard, leading to possible flooding and potential chicken-evacuation from their coop, and everyone was moaning about the new refrigerator not arriving until the end of the month, due to supply-chain issues stemming from the Pandemic.

     Fortunately Miss Linda was living on disability (originally due to legal blindness, then turning into a doll), but she definitely needed some more money under-the-table to fix this endless string of home repairs. As she didn’t want to lose any of her annoying tenants at this time due to raising their rent – every penny was already spent on previous repairs such as house-painting, tree-trimming, and taxes –  she actually thought of trying to find some kind of job, but thankfully Madame Stratus, the Cloud-Reader, talked her out of it: “Oh, honey…there’s got to be another way!” The two of them put their heads together over an oversized bottle of inexpensive Pinot Noir.

     “Look, honey…you’re a doll right now – keep your Disability money! There’s no telling how long you’re going to remain a doll, so don’t do anything crazy like getting a job, which could jeopardize your reliable stream of government cheese!” Madame Stratus advised, and Miss Linda nodded emphatically in agreement, after taking a large gulp of her wine. After all, who in their right mind would hire a doll with a hereditary eye disease?

     “What you need is a side-hustle, a cash-based business that’s easy to run from home, and I have the perfect idea, that we could work on together; it’s called “DIRT”: Dramatic Intense Relief Today, obtained by a grounding technique of placing bare feet on…dirt. It’s supposed to suck all the impurities out of your body like a magnet, and we have plenty of dirt to package up around here. All we’d need is a simple cardboard box, big enough to fit someone’s feet in, and we can fill it with dirt off the hillside for free. I’m willing to split things with you 50-50; it’s my idea, but it’s your dirt.”

     Miss Linda contemplated this while sipping her wine…the hillside was where Little Johnny and the FBI agents had disappeared a few years ago, but she had seen hide nor hair of the Vortex since it had sucked them in, so hopefully digging around on the hillside would be relatively safe; she thought that Madame Stratus, as a Cloud-Reader, would be aware of any doom-filled implications ahead of time.

     Additionally, the Republicans were making a huge fuss lately about cutting Social Security benefits so they could increase the National Defense budget, so it would be prudent for Miss Linda to have a cash-based home business to fall back on, just in case her Disability benefits got pulled out from underneath her due to QAnon infiltrating the government or nuclear war.

     “Selling…dirt?” Miss Linda mused.

     “No, honey…selling ‘DIRT: Dramatic Intense Relief Today!’”

     Dramatic Intense Relief Today sounded fantastic to Miss Linda; “Let’s do it! Let’s be dirt-sellers!”

     Madame Stratus raised her wine glass, “To selling dirt!”

Tigre...goodbye.

     My sweet, sweet boy…Big Boy, Tiger-Stripes, Akaar (your first name which did not suit you), Nestle-Toll-House-Chocolate-Chip-Cookie-Dough-Paws, Big Mitts, Scaredy-Cat, Three-Breakfast-Eater, Food-Stealer, Cat-Fight-Instigator, Female-Cats’-“Ladies-Man”, Big Bellios, Tom, My Darling, My Angel...goodbye.

     I adopted you as a teeny-tiny kitten almost thirteen years ago; you were found in an alley, and neutered “too soon” said the Veterinarian who took you in. You were screaming bloody murder in your cage, isolated from the other cats because of your vocal stamina. You were the last kitten they introduced me to; I took one look at you and said “That’s the one for me!” You were highly sensitive, and misunderstood…you had a rough start, Alley-Cat, Trash-Cat, my Beloved, Handsome Boy.

     You were always vocal…I could have entire conversations with you, and you would respond, give me your thoughts on a matter, or demand your food; you grew into a sixteen-pound gorgeous boy with luminous tiger-stripes and golden eyes…Tiger Eyes. Tigre.

     You have been with me through romantic heartbreak, my diagnosis of legal blindness, my mother’s death, her husband’s death, my sister’s husband’s death, the Pandemic, the Drumpf Presidency and its aftermath, job losses and successes, collage stress (!), the drifting-away of some old friendships, and my artistic pursuits put on the back burner because of so much loss, so quickly all I could do was muster up the courage to cope. You played the piano for me, when I was too despondent to lift my hands to the keys, let alone sing out loud.

     I will look for you in many places, in expected and unexpected places…in the bathroom sink, in the bathtub, on the kitchen table (“Bad cat!” – my response, purely performative for my house-mates’ sake), on my piano and keyboard, in the window, on “your chair”, on my bed, in my arms.

     Thank you for loving me unconditionally, and for being here as long as you could, through thick and thin, for not judging me or pointing out my many flaws, because I am, after all, just a human being learning as I go.

     To dismiss your passing as “just a cat” would be a gigantic understatement; you were/are an Angel sent here to teach me that love is the only thing that matters in this world. It is a painful lesson to learn (and re-learn), but all I can do is thank you for it, for making me more aware of what really matters in life.

     You are greatly missed, my sweet Tigre, Tiger-Boy, and you will always be loved.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Godforsaken!"

    Typically, all four dogs at Rancho Tarzanadu would roam about the backyard freely, but on this rare front-of-the-house- expedition, one of Miss Linda’s housemates, Gracon (the film editor Miss Linda regularly calls Garcon) was walking one of the German Dog Trainer’s dogs in front of the house while she was at work, due to the house-painter (the mysteriously wise and kindly Mr. On) working in the backyard.

     One of Miss Linda’s neighbors, Mrs. Dwight (the Republican) came barreling toward Gracon, who held up one hand and shouted, “Don’t approach me!” as the extraordinarily handsome dog barked his freaking head off while the determined Mrs. Dwight continued to storm full speed ahead.

     “What is wrong with you?” Gracon shouted.

     “Can you puh-lease not have your dog pee in my yard?” Mrs. Dwight insisted. “It stains my grass!” This was literally the first time Mrs. Dwight had ever said one word to anyone at Rancho Tarzanadu since they had all moved in…several years ago! (The Dwights, by the way, watered their grass every single day in the middle of a Los Angeles drought; they felt the water-restrictions did not apply to them, as they applied to everyone else, because they were somehow elevated in status in their own minds.)

     “Okay, okay!” Gracon exclaimed, backing away from her and turning to high-tail it back to safe ground; he was not fond of ranting pear-shaped women with helmet-hairdos on a good day.

     “Oh, and another thing – that color is Godforsaken!” Mrs. Dwight retorted, referring to Miss Linda’s house.

     “Super!” Gracon yelled (he had never used that word before in his life, but Mrs. Dwight inspired it). “Take it up with Miss Linda!”

     Now we all know that Mrs. Dwight didn’t want to take anything up with Miss Linda, so she walked briskly away in a huff.

     Garcon told Miss Linda about the exchange soon afterward, and Miss Linda was furious at first, at the gall, at the nerve, at the pettiness, at the Busy-body-ness, at the rudeness of proclaiming the color of Rancho Tarzanadu Godforsaken! How dare she!

     Miss Linda had dreamed of painting her house this color combo for years, and at just the right time, Mr. On showed up out of the blue and offered her a price she couldn’t refuse. He set to work immediately, painting the body of the house “Mid-century Gem” (aquamarine green), the majority of the trim white, and the piece-de-resistance: the shutters “Sangria” (which, let’s face it – is magenta). People had strong reactions, one way or another, except for the German Dog Trainer, Astrid, who didn’t react at all, which made Miss Linda think that she may be hiding something.

     Most of the residents at Rancho Tarzanadu liked it, with compliments like, “It’s really bright! I can easily find my way home now!” and “It reminds me of Miami…gaudy like that!” and “It looks like a giant birthday cake!” and the Amazon delivery man said, “Cool house! It looks very 1970s!”. Miss Linda soon realized that Mrs. Dwight’s bland taste was all in her mouth, and set about plans for a drought-resistant blooming garden consisting of bright pink, red, and purple flowers bursting from all the window-boxes and the front yard. She carefully placed a sign that read “For Wonder” as a centerpiece, that one of her friends had brought back from Burning Man.

     Mrs. Dwight responded in kind, and placed not one, but two signs in her yard (she had her maid construct them); one read: “Dwight Lives Matter!” and the other, “Dwight Power!” (with a sketched upraised fist). The surrounding neighbors gradually became much more skeptical of the Dwights’ signs than Miss Linda’s wonder-inspiring one, and people also took note that the Dwight’s were always complaining…about everything!

     Miss Linda longed to plant high hedges between their houses, to block out their negative energy, but that would be expensive, and she had just shelled-out for painting the house. Manuel was the one who suggested (the only words he had spoken since returning from Guantanamo Bay: “Add more color.”

     Miss Linda contemplated this…more color?

     She decided to add a Malibu light collection, in varying shades of purple, red, and green, and also added some Christmas lights that would never come down; Garcon did the stringing and setting up.

     Soon afterward, Miss Linda awoke one rainy Sunday morning to the Dwight’s gardeners feverishly planting fairly large hedge-trees in a tight row that would soon block all view and any unwanted eye contact or communication from either party. Miss Linda sighed with relief, and gave the hard-working gardeners a thumbs-up from her alcove window.

     Manuel silently calculated with pencil and paper the cost of the tree-shrubs, and Miss Linda’s relative savings in choosing such vibrant paint colors: thousands of dollars!

     Mr. On walked by them as they sipped coffee in the garden and said, “You know…at first I wasn’t sure about these colors, but you have a good eye for color, Miss Linda! It blends in with all the nature.” He swooped his hand around the beautiful, freshly-painted paradise of Rancho Tarzanadu, and said with wonder, “It is a beautiful place, here…so secluded and peaceful.”

     Miss Linda thanked him, and also agreed that it blended well with “all the nature”, especially with the magenta Bougainvillea…and what was “Godforsaken” about that? And now, with the energy shield of the free hedge-trees, it would be even more beautiful, peaceful and private, with the Dwights’ negativity enveloped by the force of Nature.

"Godforsaken" (or "The Busybody's Lament"); Red Felt Heart Song Lyrics

Don’t approach me, Karen;

your energy is wearing!

Your beige and grays are barren;

what is wrong with you, Karen?

 

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

All my greens and sparkly blues — like a Harem!

All my pink-magenta hues — blaring!

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

 

Your house is brown and beige and gray, resembling doggie poo;

and it contains an even beige-er person — you!

Your taste is bland and limp and dry, like that of a rotting root;

and if you charge at me again, you’ll get my boot!

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

they’re heading at you, now...

you better watch the f*ck out!

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

my glaring colors shining bright,

throughout the pitch-black dead of night.

 

Don’t approach me, Karen;

your energy is wearing!

Your beige and grays are barren;

what is wrong with you, Karen?

 

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

All my greens and sparkly blues — like a Harem!

All my pink-magenta hues — blaring!

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

 

Your house is brown and beige and gray, resembling doggie poo;

and it contains an even beige-er person — you!

Your taste is bland and limp and dry, like that of a rotting root;

and if you charge at me again, you’ll get my boot!

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

sidewinding toward you, now —

fluorescent-green snakes with pink eyes.

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

so scurry back to your gray house,

you little busybody mouse!

Esme Hadn't Been Outdoors in a Long Time

     Esme hadn’t been outdoors in a long time; she had been trapped inside her own head, cooped-up in her designer-bohemian garret, eating from silver serving trays and having afternoon tea at precisely 4:00 PM every day for what seemed an eternity.

     She was so bored!

     She ventured out one day due to unmitigated boredom, and randomly picked up the gleaming gardening shears abandoned on the grass (the gardener was taking an afternoon nap).

     She noticed that a section of topiary was not completely aligned and immediately began chopping and shaping.

     She worked all afternoon, into the twilight hours, and dismissed the confused but grateful gardener for the remainder of the season (with pay).

     She had finally discovered her true calling, after decades of ennui.

     She became fixated and laser-focused in her work (some might say obsessed) — no one in her sphere understood, but that was nothing new.

     She held the entire shape of the world in her fingertips, in the sharpness of her blade, which spread out enticingly before her; green, verdant, and endless.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Dollhouse"

     Miss Linda was informed today that Manual was finally being sent home from Guantanamo Bay. She felt overjoyed, and also overwhelmed…he had been gone for so long, and been through so much, she felt certain that he must be a completely different person. When she was notified of his arrival, it was also revealed that he was now a “little person”. She inquired: “What do you mean…’little person’?”

     It appeared that Manual (along with several of his guards and their commanding officers) had somehow been transformed into a doll, also – even smaller than Miss Linda herself. She was curious to find out how this had come about, but she didn’t want to overwhelm him with questions immediately (like she normally would have). She set about getting her old Victorian Dollhouse out of the garage, and with the help of her gardener she had it placed in a safe-ish place in the backyard after the spiderwebs were blown out with the leaf-blower, situated next to the pool, overlooking the golf course. She imagined that Manual would want his privacy in order to…recover.

     Miss Linda took a step back and examined the state of her Dollhouse; it needed many repairs but it would have to do temporarily, as she wasn’t expecting anyone physically living inside of it. It needed a new roof, and new bannisters, and definitely a paint job, but at least it would house Manual safe-ishly, and might actually look pretty good after residing at Guantanamo Bay for so long.

     Fortunately the blistering heatwave inspired by Hurricane Kay was subsiding, and the end of Summer was approaching. As much as she loved Rancho Tarzanadu, she was growing more concerned about the effects of climate change on her beautiful California state. She was worn down from the constant fires, and the insistent news updates, and other people’s opinions and expectations and wants and desires, and her own opinions and expectations and wants and desires. Life seemed to be a spinning Ferris Wheel of perpetual details and minutiae, and up-keep, and feeding times, and cat-poop-scooping, and raised temperatures, and emails that needed responding to, and advertisements, and products, and deliveries, and bills to be paid, and Politicians, and Dentist appointments, and recycling that wasn’t really recycling but just gave the impression of recycling, and water restrictions, and fines, and looming drought, and energy-control, and black and white, and red and blue, and deadlines, and paperwork, and corruption, and criminals, and judges and juries, and jury duty, truth and lies, money, money, money, and on and on and on.

     Miss Linda attempted to relax in the pool the way her therapist advised her, floating on a raft while listening to guided meditations on her AirPods, but her mind was continually racing from one thing to another which she blamed on her consumer-driven-instant-gratification culture. She made a note to herself to look into Psilocybin Mushroom Therapy as she drifted off to sleep on her gently bouncing raft, and dreamed. When she woke up, she scribbled in her Dream Journal:

     I dreamed that I was in a small rowboat with myself (my “higher self”?).

     I was telling myself that the only way back to dry land was by making art (we were in the middle of the ocean).

     We were working on little miniature paintings that were detailed and pretty, and myself told me to keep at it, and it would lead me where I needed to be.

     I didn’t quite understand, but it also made perfect sense to me.

     When I realized it made sense, I woke up.

     Miss Linda stared in the direction of the swollen setting sun, and watched it drop down behind the hills; it was exhausted too.

Buried Alive

You asked me:

“How can you live like this?”

 

with piles upon piles

of stuff

 

that I have to step over,

trip over,

 

climb over,

growing exponentially:

 

The Blob,

expanding and mutating of its own accord.

 

I responded:

“I don’t have time.”

 

which is a lie,

because time is all I’ve got.

 

The truth

is:

 

the piles contain my heart,

swollen, bruised and buried;

 

broken

for years;

 

useless,

unreachable.

 

The excavation,

the landslide would bring me down.

 

So I avoid, pretend,

and step over;

 

if I don’t unearth it

I can imagine

 

it’s not so bad –

my broken heart

 

is just a heart,

beneath…down deep;

 

not so bad.

Not so bad.

 

If you try to find me

I disappear,

 

slip under,

out of sight,

 

like I never existed

in the first place;

 

nothing to find,

nothing to fix,

 

nothing to love,

nothing lost.

 

Just piles

upon piles;

 

a richness,

a bounty.

 

Remains

of a life

 

I once lived,

that now lives me.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Witch Academy?"

     After graduating, Miss Linda floated in the pool exactly one time – there was so much going on in the world that there didn’t seem like enough time to float in the pool. Her online meditation instructor would say that that was the exact reason why she should be floating in the pool with ear buds in, listening to Chakra-healing meditations and micro-dosing psychedelic mushrooms.

     She thought about what her “Nation and Empire, Law and Government”  Professor had asked her at graduation: “What are you going to do now?”

     She had recently been unpacking the last of her mother’s things, brought home from her 94-year-old boyfriend’s house; very personal items like journals and small paintings and notes, leaving Miss Linda’s heart swollen like a gigantic purple cabbage, effectively temporarily immobilizing her. She wandered through the house like a ghost herself, feeling melancholy more often than not, and caught herself sighing loudly. She didn’t want to drive off the tenants who survived the Pandemic with her – the Mime (hardly anyone noticed he was still there), the German Dog-Trainer (whose pack of dogs made up for the Mime’s muteness), and the computer-graphics editor (no one really knew what he did for certain), so she knew she needed to snap out of her ennui. She incorporated deep breathing techniques, creative expression, and more exercise as remedies.

     The Pandemic had scattered people far and wide, blown them across the states and the world as if transported by a raging tornado, and the emotional gaps and chasms left in its wake felt ocean-sized sometimes; she was also searching for a remedy for that, and wished she could conjure a potion of “Emotional-Gaps-and-Chasms-Elixir”.

     Her diagnosis of Stargardt Eye Disease left her with a monthly government stipend, and miraculously free health care (something everyone should have). She actually had time now to change the world for the better – although she had gotten a pesky call from the government that morning (she let it go to voicemail), reminding her that they could still find work for her, no matter her disability, which made her feel immediately nauseous, envisioning herself working inside a sooty factory, or a coal-mine, or breaking rocks apart with a sledgehammer while wearing iron ankle shackles, getting paid with a small pouch of coins and some cold porridge.  

     There had to be a better way!

     She had been writing protest songs on the piano, and was learning how to record them, although it was a slow process considering not only her eyesight issue, but the fact that she was still a doll (which she had actually gotten used to by now).

     She had also been writing tragic Sylvia Plath-inspired poetry, and working on a magical-realism novel, but she doubted that the Government would view either of those pursuits as “valid” work.

     The world was spiraling voraciously around her, eating up women’s rights, gnawing on them and spitting them back out, while “religious” zealots ruled the Supreme Court, and a criminal ex-President was throwing plates of Ketchup at walls, smashing dishes, and attempting to strangle Secret Service agents, while truck-loads of people were dying from heat-stroke trying to cross the border, the war in Ukraine roared on, the pandemic continued, the lunatic white nationalists stocked up on even more guns, and the emotional gaps and chasms were far and wide, all around, even between people living in the same cities. On top of all of that, the government was now hinting that they wanted her to work in a coal-mine in spite of her disability and get paid in cold porridge?

     Miss Linda had to say, “No thank you…I’d rather remain a State-sponsored Artist.”

     Although she had to admit that even though writing protest songs and tragic poetry felt really good and filled some of the emotional gaps and chasms, she wondered if she should be doing something more – like fighting in the Resistance or volunteering for the Progressive “agenda”. One of her friends (the Psychic Cloud-Reader) had decided to open her home to wayward girls and women whose bodies were so tightly regulated by their states that they had to seek refuge in California for certain matters.

     The Supreme Court had just ruled that private religious schools could get funding by the State, so now might be the perfect time to open a Witch Academy; she might get even more funding because of her impaired vision…maybe she could get a grant for a non-profit organization? Maybe that Master’s degree in Humanities would come in handy after all?

     Miss Linda wondered if the State funds for religious schools only went towards certain religions, or to only one religion?  

     Because “Freedom of Religion” sounded like it would apply to all religions, but she also knew that not everything is always what it appears to be, and that words can be twisted to confuse the average citizen – hence the need for a good lawyer at certain times.

     Something to meditate on…maybe while floating in the pool with a Bloody Mary, while there was still enough water in the City of Angels to keep it filled.